


To Tame the Wild

by Voluspa



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Abduction, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous/implied relationships, BDSM, Canon-Typical Violence, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dom/sub, Dream Smut, F/F, F/M, Falling In Love, Flashbacks, Fluff, Height Differences, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Kidnapping, Miscarriage, Modern Character in Thedas, One-Sided Attraction, Pagan Gods, Paganism, Plot, Qunari Culture and Customs, Slow Build, Witchcraft, Witches, collar and leash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-07
Updated: 2016-11-08
Packaged: 2018-08-29 13:48:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8492152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Voluspa/pseuds/Voluspa
Summary: AU / Shortly after Inquisition /A witch wants to leave her memories of abuse behind and start anew. She travels out of town during a liminal time of year when the veil is thin to entreat the God of Rebirth for a drastic life-change. Her prayers are answered in an unexpected way, and she is pulled through the veil into Thedas.Arvaarad intends to prove that despite losing one of his saarebas to the Tal Vashoth, he is still worthy of his role in the Qun.The Tal Vashoth have a plan to finally rid the Frostback Basin of the Qunari, which has been years in the making.





	1. I - The Answered Prayer

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there everyone. Thank you for taking the time to read my story. I've had this idea in my head for a while, though some of the concepts have changed. I apologize in advance for any mistakes, as I do not currently have a beta. Please let me know your thoughts! I definitely welcome them.

**I.**

______________________

The darkened oaks are my only shelter  
Red leaves are blown by the wind  
An ebony raven now catches my eye  
Sitting in calmness  
Before spreading his black wings  
Reaching for the skies

_ \- Opeth _

______________________

T he moon hung like a pale sickle in the ocean of the midnight sky, cradled by wisps of ashen cloud. Smoke rose to meet the light of the moon in billowing tendrils from the forest below. Embers glowed hotly, outlining a cloaked figure amongst the trees. There was a dull flash in the dark; a sound much like bird wings beating out a steady rhythm with the accompaniment of the gentle ringing of many little bells. A handful of greenery was thrown onto the embers and quickly burst into flame, sending a plume of fragrant white smoke to the stars above.

It was quiet at first, like the sound of the wind caressing the trees. The voice slowly grew louder, a voice feminine but thick with purpose and desperation, chanting along with the sound of beating wings. She was fanning the red-hot coals feverishly, willing them to burst into flame. Sweat beaded on her forehead with her exertion; her brow creasing as she leaned into her task, voice rising in pitch.

“...I pray you to be present with me in this Nemeton.” She flicked her wrist, the feathers of her fan hissing through the cool night air. “Let Your gaze fall upon this Sacred Ground. Great Hart, Holy Stag, Lord of the Earth. Grant me your blessing…”

There was a distant rumble, like the sound of the tides rushing in and crashing against the scarred face of a cliff. A great wind weaved through the trees, tugging at the figure’s heavy cloak and igniting the coals into a raging flame. The woman stumbled back as the wind struck her, but she quickly steadied herself and fed wood to the flames.   
She wondered with bewilderment if the God had heard her, or if it had merely been coincidence that there was a gust strong enough to start her fire. A part of her doubted, and another part wanted to believe. She had come here to this forest to call upon Him; the Stag-horned Lord of Celtic legend. He was the keeper of in-between places, and thus not only a God of endings, but a God of beginnings as well. Her purpose here was clear; she did not plan to leave this place.   
A heavy sigh sliced through the air as the woman readied a simple cot to sleep upon. She had brought a tent with her, but the night was late and sleep was beckoning her. It would have to wait until morning. The soft chirping of crickets blended in with the gentle ebb and flow of the wind breathing through the trees. The woman lay down in her cot, wrapping herself in a thick blanket, her eyes looking through the flames as memories played like a silent film before her eyes.

_ A pain in her heart. Her body aching. She cried… A hand around her throat. The sound of glass breaking. “You are worth less than nothing”. Ink bleeding on water-warped paper. All alone. _

A small sob escaped through clenched teeth, and she clamped her eyes tightly shut against the tears, golden light dancing against her eyelids.  _ His name written backwards and forwards and backwards again; in hushed whispers... “stay away from me”. The paper blackening and curling as the flame devoured it. The smoke sends her plea to the heavens. _

A log popped and shifted in the flames. The wind gently pulled on her blanket and filled her ears with gentle lullaby. Her lips moved in a silent prayer before sleep claimed her.

  
  
  


A chorus of birdsong greeted dawn’s light as it broke through the lush crown of the forest. Fog rose from the cool earth, curling about the roots of the trees and enveloping the underbrush in a pale cloud. The air smelled of charred wood, fragrant sage, and petrichor.

She had risen when she heard a distant, hoarse trumpeting echoing through the thick fog; the familiar call of an elk greeting the cool late October morning. The embers of her dying fire hissed as she poured water onto the ash, and she stirred the mixture with a stick until it was a thick grey soup.

Retrieving a bar of honey-and-rose soap from her canvas backpack, she shrugged off her heavy velvet cloak and knelt in front of a plastic bucket filled with water. She vigorously scrubbed the dirt from her body until her pale skin was pink and clean.

Another call reverberated through the sentinel-like trees, and the woman looked up as she towelled herself off. Many large shadows weaved through the tree line, though she could not hear their movements through the leaf litter.    
Her pulse jumped in her throat as she hurried to dress herself in fresh clothing; a loose wine-coloured peasant-style top with bell sleeves, dark suede pants with matching handmade boots laced up to her knees, and a dark knitted scarf tied around her neck. She folded her used clothes and stuffed them haphazardly into a waterproof drawstring bag, desperate to follow the creatures before they disappeared into the deep forest.

Shouldering a backpack filled with provisions to see her safely through her trek, she rushed toward the tree line. The herd had already been swallowed by the cloying darkness of the forest, but she was determined to find their trail. She was sure she received a sign From the God. What else could it have been? The elk were elusive, and wary of people. It was a shock to see a large herd navigating through the forest so close to her camp.

She parted a thatch of high brush, her dark curls snagging on the tender branches. She tugged her hair free and carried on, pulling out broken twigs and leaves from her tangles. The woman could not hear them, but they left little hints of their presence; cloven prints in the damp earth, chewed leaves, fallen branches. Every once in awhile, she would glimpse the tines of a great buck through the foliage, and she would hasten forward to get a better glimpse of the beast, but her struggle through the undergrowth would drive the hart away. Defeated, she would sigh and pick her way carefully forward, tying ribbons to the trees so that she may find her way back to camp.

T he sun had reached its peak and began to slowly descend towards the cradle of the earth. Soft golden light managed to push through the foliage, casting the fiery fall hues of the leaves into pale shadow.

The dark haired woman sat on a fallen stump, chewing thoughtfully on what was left of a heel of homemade bread and cheese. Her moss-and-bark coloured eyes seemed to focus beyond the forest, soft and shining in the afternoon light.

She had been following the hart and his harem for many hours now; she guessed she was at least six hours deep into the forest, since the sun rose around eight in the morning this time of year and it was now early afternoon. She was sure she would be able to get a view of the full herd soon; she had tracked her position on a worn map and was confident they were close to a lake. She hoped they would stop to drink before continuing their journey.

Despite her confidence, a feeling of uneasiness settled in the pit of her stomach as if she had swallowed a stone. She had traveled far from her camp and in a few hours time she would have to look for shelter for the night. If she did not catch the herd now, she was sure the beasts would keep moving in the darkness while she slept.

But it was not only that. Elk primarily rested from late morning to late afternoon, as they preferred to roam in darkness to avoid predators. This buck and his harem seemed hard pressed to carry on, and she wasn’t sure if it was because they knew she followed, or if they were being hunted by something more sinister.

Shivering at the thought, she swallowed down the last bit of bread with a mouthful of water and stood up from her perch on the log. Swinging her pack over her shoulders after putting away her bottle of water, she thoughtfully considered her next course of action. She figured she had supplies for three more days with her, if she was careful and rationed them out properly. It was more than enough to see her safely back to her campsite, and there she had tied the rest of her food high amongst the tree branches and out-of-sight from bears and other scavengers. She had prepared for a lengthy stay.

The trail was easy to follow now that she was more familiar with the signs. A clump of fur caught on the bark of an enormous elm, freshly chewed leaves ripped from a still-green bush on the forest floor, a set of cloven prints in the damp earth. The path snaked around the sentinel-like trees in a way that might have confused her if she was not paying attention.

The woman paused a moment to untie her scarf and tuck it away in her pack. The forest was eerily still, and she cast her eyes around her, cautiously taking note of her current surroundings. Inhaling an uneasy breath, she found a thick, low-hanging branch and tied a fluorescent ribbon to mark her way. Sweat traced it’s way down her spine like a cool finger, the hair standing up on end at the back of her neck. She swallowed, feeling her pulse thrumming in her throat as her anxiety spiked. An uneasy feeling hung thickly in the air. Impulsively, she rubbed her collarbone where a protective stave-rune had been tattooed, muttering a prayer to the Gods that she would be kept from harm.

Her pace was swift now as she carried on through the forest. Her brow was creased with trepidation, realizing that the herd’s path was dwindling and it was becoming more difficult for her to track them. With shaking hands, she considered her map, her pointed finger following trail she had penciled in as she moved. She cursed sharply, realizing that in her haste, she forgot to mark off the last place she ribboned off on her map. To compound that, it looked like the herd intended to bypass the lake completely, which thoroughly complicated her plans.

The thick paper of the map crinkled in protest as she laid it on a nearby stump. She scowled to herself, digging into her pockets for another ribbon to mark her place. It was close to her previous spot, but she felt it would be faster to make another mark than backtrack to make sure her map was labelled correctly. She looked around for a suitable tree, eyeing a beautiful weeping willow before settling for a sturdy oak with large, low-hanging branches. A gentle breeze stirred the crowns of the trees and carried fallen leaves across the forest floor as the dark-haired woman stood on the tips of her toes to tie a ribbon on the narrowest portion of a low hanging limb.

With satisfied sigh, she knotted the ribbon and settled back onto her heels, swaying with the wind and taking in a lungful of the fragrant autumn air. The familiar sound of leaves crunching underfoot caught her attention, and she swung her gaze toward the sound.

A single wolf pushed it’s face through the withered curtain of the willow tree, watching the woman with eyes like chips of pale topaz. It blinked slowly, a small whine cutting the silence as it stepped forward, nose twitching as it caught her scent. She froze in place, her eyes bulging as the massive creature drew closer. The veins on her neck jumped out and she trembled with panic as she slowly drew her backpack in front of her to protect her body.

The wolf’s fur bristled, it’s lips pulling back in a deep growl to reveal a set of dagger-like teeth. It lunged forward, jaws snapping, and the woman staggered back, a scream tearing through her throat, her arms crossing her chest defensively.

The wolf backed her deeper into the brush; branches grabbed onto her hair like many tiny hands and she thrashed, panic overtaking her. Broken wood gouged into her flesh, leaving her forearms in ribbons as she turned and pushed through the undergrowth. The beast growled, it’s spittle hitting the back of her arms as it rushed her to snap at her backside. Her cries reverberated through the wood, taunting her, reminding her that she was alone and that this was very likely how her life would end.

She rounded on the wolf, eyes stinging with tears despite the anger rising in her. She had come here to ask the God for rebirth; to leave her broken life behind and start anew. She sought spiritual revelation, but instead she was confronted with a primal symbol of death: the wolf. She felt foolish, afraid, and naive all at once, and the emotions bounced around inside her like a wild thing trying to break free from it’s cage.

Gripping the arm straps of her bag, she swung it at the wolf, determined to at least fight until the end. The beast grabbed onto the sack and shook, the fabric tearing in it’s powerful jaws. Dark hair clinging to her face, the woman pulled back on the bag, and drove her heel downward on the wolf's shoulder with all of her weight. A high-pitched whine stung her ears, and the creature fell back, favouring it’s now injured shoulder.

She could hear her heart beating in her ears, and for a brief moment hope bloomed within her. She swung her bag around again to connect with the wolf’s shoulder, a war cry rolling off her tongue.

The air was knocked out of her lungs and she gasped hoarsely, the world spinning around her in a whirling vignette. Pain shot down her left arm like burning flame and darkness blotted her vision as the sensation spread down her side. Somehow she was now on the ground, her body refusing to move.

Suddenly she realized that she was being dragged, and not of her own accord. The crushing strength of powerful jaws tore into her upper arm, and at her lower left calf. She felt the warmth of her blood as it splattered against her cheek from the wolf who lacerated her arm. Another wolf tugged at her lower leg, silver eyes glowering down at her as she looked on in dread. She could do nothing but watch as the rest of the pack closed in around her, eight ravenous wolves in all. 

Desperation filled her and she cried shamelessly, countless prayers for help drowning in the triumphant howling of the wolves. They were dragging her deeper into a clearing, most likely to make it easier for them to devour her. With horror, she noticed her blood leaving a dark trail across the earth, and her pleas became more frantic.

A figure of a great white stag seemed to appear from the darkness of the trees, it’s ears twitching. The woman recognised with both relief and sadness that the end was indeed close, and the God had come to guide her to the summer lands. She let out a shaky breath, her lips calling the name of the Horned God, begging for release.

The great stag stepped out from the trees soundlessly, lowering it’s great antlers and turning it’s head to look at the ravaged woman. The proud hart snorted, plumes of hot air rising into the sky as it pawed the ground. Other shapes joined the massive creature; a great herd of elk drinking in the bloody scene before them. The stag keened and charged toward the wolves. His kin followed; first the young bucks, then the wizened does.

A wolfish scream rose from the tumult as the sharp horns of the great hart pierced the side of the beast which had latched onto the woman’s arm. A doe struck with it’s cloven hooves at the wolf by her feet, connecting with a sickening crack. The herd circled around the stag, who stood over the woman, it’s rack lowered against the pack. Trails of blood coated the lush grass as the herd trampled the wolves who did not escape the onslaught, their yowls lost in the dirge of the elk.

The woman lay on her back, her dark hair a halo about her head as she stared up at the hart. Her hands were clasped over her chest, shaking, as her lips moved in husky whispers. “Cernunnos, Lord, keeper of the summerlands, great and merciful: you who in all beginnings end, and all endings begin. My prayer goes to you to open the passage, to clear the threshold, to carry me to the world beyond…”

The Stag turned it’s head to consider her with it’s soft, wet gaze. Muzzle twitching as it inhaled her scent, the benevolent creature huffed at the delirious woman before raising it’s head and walking over her. She rolled onto her side, crying out as sharp pains shot across her body. “Please… Do not leave me here…”

She could feel herself on the precipice, her vision rimmed with black and studded with stars. The agony was so great her stomach turned and she heaved, expelling what was left of the meal she partook what seemed like hours ago. She wept, knowing despite it all this was the end. She rolled back onto her side and closed her eyes, listening to the song of the wind flowing through the leaves, sighing like many small voices. The sound grew louder; a litany of comfort as she faded into unconsciousness:

_ The Children of the Gods are Wild and Blessed. _


	2. II - Garnet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frightening visions. A struggle for survival.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again. It's slow going but I promise it will go a little faster from here on out. Happy reading!

II.  
______________________

The torment has ended  
The beast has done his work  
Great fires rage outside of this wooded sanctuary  
But soon they will be quenched by a purifying rain  
The embers of the ceremonial fire burn to ash  
A new warmth stirs within the center of the earth  
I am alone here no more

\- Wolves in the Throne Room  
______________________

 

She could smell it coming, but it didn’t matter. Her cheek was pressed to the earth, fragrant blades of grass sticking to her cheeks, the sun’s warm rays dancing along her back. There was a rumble in the distance that threatened a storm, and the wind carried the familiar scent of rain and churned soil. A choir of birds sung a melody to her as she eased in and out of consciousness. Words and images danced in her mind’s eye; reminders of memories past, but twisted by her dreams.  
A priestess, marking the sun wheel on the foreheads of those who passed between two great fires, chanted to the fading sun. “… And those who have walked the path of the Keeper of the Woods, they shall rejoice as they will see that what once was barren shall again blossom with life. As the wheel turns, so shall we follow….” The dark haired woman approached and received the mark, her face lowered in reverence. She watched herself pass through the threshold, and cried out as wolves wreathed in flame leapt from the pyres to tear into the her flesh. The congregation turned away from the scene and fell into dust.  
The clouds in the sky above shifted, and warm golden light fell across her eyes, pulling her back to reality. She opened her eyes against the sunshine, and pressed against the earth to push herself up. Pain shot up her arm in protest, but she managed to steady herself into a kneeling position. Dried blood stained her clothing and caked her body, flaking off as she moved.  
She looked around, her eyes protesting against the brightness of her surroundings, and spotted her backpack which lay only a few feet away. It was at that moment she realised her mouth was painfully dry, and she licked her lips impulsively, knowing that she had several bottles of water packed away. She managed to crawl her way to the bag; her arm giving her the most trouble, but luckily her calf seemed to have considerably less damage in comparison.  
Fumbling with the straps of her bag, she pulled out a bottle of water and eagerly twisted off the cap. Her hands shook as she brought the bottle to her lips, and she drunk deeply despite some of it spilling over her torn blouse.  
Gasping for air, she leaned back on her good arm and lulled her head from side to side, taking in her surroundings piece by piece. The grass was taller than she remembered, and oddly untrampled despite the efforts of the elk. She was soaked in blood, but the earth was clean of it. It was almost as if nothing happened. She was nearly inclined to believe it was all just a bad dream, but her throbbing arm reminded her otherwise. The woman turned her attention to her arm, examining the extensive bitemarks which gouged her from shoulder to elbow. The swirling celtic tattoo she had there was broken by puncture wounds and gashes. It was a mess, and the wounds bled freely despite the hardened blood.  
The woman tore the sleeves of her blouse off, and used the extensive fabric the bind wounds and create a haphazard sling to rest her arm. Shouldering her backpack, she attempted to stand but her legs shook with the effort and she collapsed back onto the soft bed of grass. She knew she could not stay here; she needed to find a source of running water to clean herself and throw the wolves off of her trail. She was sure they could scent that she was badly injured and would track her until they found the right opportunity to finish her off.  
She shivered, and her arm ached in response, demanding attention. Half crawling, half pulling herself toward the tree line, she scavenged for a strong branch to help her stand and walk. The pain dragged out the minutes into what seemed like hours, but she was able to find a branch sturdy enough to hold her weight. Using a nearby tree to steady herself, she managed to draw herself up completely. She leaned into her walking stick, stepping forward with her good leg, realizing with trepidation that she had no idea where to go.  
Her surroundings looked hazy and unfamiliar; the trees were crowned in shades of emerald instead of the flames of fall. The grass in the clearing was taller than she remembered, and now that she was standing she could see the spot in which she had been laying, marked with blood and circled by a ring of smooth, pale stone. Her pulse quickened, gaze rising up to the sky. The sun shone brightly above her, but she could see a dark smudge just above the horizon, indicating the approach of a storm. Jagged mountain peaks cut into the sky to what she assumed was the east, if she was judging the position of the sun correctly.  
There were no mountains in the forest she had tracked the elk through.  
Her heart hammered against her chest now, her gorge rising as panic shook through her body. The sceptic in her surmised that she must have travelled to another clearing before losing consciousness, but another part of her considered everything and wondered if she was guided to the summer lands after all.  
She turned toward the east, hoping that she would find a river coursing from the glacier run-off from the mountains. There, she would be able to wash her wounds and restock her water supply. Leaning heavily on her branch, she struggled off toward the mountain ridge.

 

The humid air was filled with the scent wild jasmine, fresh pine, and alpine heather. Her clothes steamed in the midday sun, laying on top of a large boulder to dry. She waded into the frigid water until she was waist deep, the sensation of the water rushing against her body soothing her aches and pains. A bar of soap in one hand, and a scrap of her ripped blouse in the other, she lathered away the dried blood from her skin and thoroughly cleansed her wounds. She cursed herself for forgetting to pack her first aid kit; she had been so sure that she was the exception to the possibility of running into trouble. She thought she was prepared for anything.  
She slammed her fists against the surface of the water, foam spraying into her eyes as she cried out in frustration. Her screams echoed in the valley, and she carried on for several minutes, her face red and brow furrowed.  
“You fool! You absurd, stubborn fool! Gwenyfar the wise, oh yes!” She sobbed, sucking in a deep breath as she bit her lip. “Ughhh….. Why?!”  
Tears blurred her vision as she collapsed into the water, the rushing waves lapping gently at her shoulders and pulling her hair. The woman named Gwenyfar huffed, sinking deep into contemplation, raising the bar of soap she had clenched her in good hand to lather up her coal-black tresses. She washed and rinsed several times until the suds went from red to white, satisfied that she had rid herself completely of blood and dirt.  
Everything she knew was gone, that much she was certain of. That was what she asked for, wasn’t it? She had started with the fire, throwing in the appropriate herbs, chanting as she blew air onto the coals, sending her plea up to the gods in the form of fragrant smoke. But that was not enough. She had seen the elk, and she was certain she had to give offerings to the herd to appease the Gods and have her prayers heard.  
And they had been answered. Her life would never go back to the way it was. She wasn’t even sure if she was dead and in the summer lands, or alive in some other… Place. Whatever the case, she knew she had to be more conscious of her surroundings and take care of her wounds if she wanted to survive.  
Gwenyfar inspected her arm, pinching the undamaged flesh and flexing her fingers to ensure it wasn’t failing her. She wasn’t sure she had the stomach to amputate the limb itself if it came to that. She felt her stomach churn in response, and she quickly pushed the thought from her mind.  
Leaning against the side of a boulder, she lifted her leg to inspect it as well. Her calf was a mosaic of bruises, but the double layer her suede pants and boots provided managed to protect her from the worst of the wolves’ teeth. It was sore, but the punctures were shallow and she was confident her leg would soon heal. Her worry lay mostly in the condition of her arm.  
Lowering her leg steadily, Gwenyfar allowed her lower body to float in the gentle waves of the river shallows, her good arm wrapped around a rock to anchor herself. It would be at least another half hour until her clothes and bandages were dry enough for her to dress, so she took the opportunity to soak in the sun and take the weight off of her tired limbs.  
The sound of rushing water filled her ears, and in the distance the muted groan of ice fracturing from mountain-top glaciers competed with the rolling thunder of the storm inching it’s way over the mountain ridge. The wind blew gently, carrying puffs of pollen on the fresh alpine air. Her eyes drifted shut, the chatter of her mind soothed by the calmness of her surroundings. Repose claimed her, and she drifted into reverie, the minutes passing like seconds.

 

The rumble of thunder sounded closer, and the warmth of the sun waned as it was eclipsed. Sweat pearled on her brow, and her cheeks flushed with warmth. Gwenyfar stirred and groaned, clinging to the remnants of a pleasant dream. Despite her comfort, her hair on the back of her neck stood on end. She felt as if eyes were on her, and the feeling grew stronger with every moment, willing her completely back into consciousness.  
She stifled a yawn with her injured hand, turning to face the rock she clung to so she could get a foothold and stand. Once she was steady, she bent and splashed water on her face, feeling abnormally warm. With a sigh she rose, the water pulling against her legs as she approached the shore. The strange feeling prodding her senses, a shiver making it’s way down her spine. She pushed her long, dark hair out of her eyes, her leaf-and-earth colored irises darting around to rest on the massive shape of her watcher.  
She froze, her throat tightening at the sight of him. Her feet immediately seemed to take root in the riverbed, refusing to respond to her instinct to flee. She could not see his eyes behind the helmet he wore, but it was clear he was watching her intently. He was crouched by her drying clothing, his fingers grasping one of the strips of cloth she had used to bind her arm. She could tell that he likely stood at least two heads taller than her measly five foot five, despite the several feet of water and rocky shore that separated them. His ivory hair was worn in a half braid, and was almost as long as hers, nearly reaching mid-back. A set of horns blacker than obsidian curved over his head and were banded with etched gold. Ruby-red patterns spanned over his bare, ash-colored chest, heavy leather pauldrons were strapped to his shoulders, and a massive sword as well as a rod were belted to his waist.  
The man growled deeply, the sound of it reminding her of the rumbling of a great wildcat as it echoed against the metal of his helmet. He drew himself up slowly, the muscles in his torso bunching as he lifted himself to full height before her. Gwenyfar trembled, her hands moving to cover her nakedness, her lower lip quivering as fear gripped her. The water splashed as he moved toward her slowly in a graceful, predatory fashion.  
Her heart jumped at his movement, and she sprung away from him like a spooked deer, her body giving way to baser instinct. Adrenaline pumped in her veins, allowing her to clumsily sprint away toward the bank of the river, the intense pain of her limbs an afterthought. Water sprayed the back of her legs and up her spine as the being sprung toward her, a massive clawed hand clamping onto her bad arm. Gwenyfar screeched and convulsed in pain, her legs giving out beneath her as she fought against him. She twisted in his grip, screaming in agony, her unfettered hand raking across his chest in a feeble attempt to break free.  
His arm curved around her torso and lifted her easily so that she was pressed against his body, preventing her from scratching him any further. Once he got a firm hold of her, he quickly shifted his grip so one arm pinned her upper body against his chest and the other locked her legs to prevent her from struggling.  
She strained against his grip, but he seemed to manage her easily; tightening his hold on her as she protested until she gave in to exhaustion. Her eyes caught his through the slits in his helmet; a pair of polished garnets seemed to drink her in, but managed not to betray a single thought. She gasped for breath, her own gaze tracing the curve of his ebon horns and the patterns hammered into the gold bands which adorned them.  
She could not fathom what this being was---though she was sure he was male from his masculine features--or what he wanted from her. The possibilities ran through her head like a film reel, and she slammed her eyes shut, biting her lip to hold back a sob.  
Something was terribly wrong about this place. It was not home. It was not the world as she knew it. It was as if she was pulled across the veil and thrown into another time and place.  
Gwenyfar’s bad arm throbbed as he carried her away from the river in silence, her body rocking against his with each long stride. The pain clouded her senses, and made it difficult for her to concentrate on forming words to question him. She felt unbearably warm, roses blooming in her cheeks and sweat beginning to dust her brow. Her lips moved, but pieced together strings of words that did not even make sense to her own ears. She could feel his gaze on her face, and her lips moved again, but only to release as strangled cry as the pain reached a peak.  
Her body trembled, and she felt him shift her weight into one arm, his form kneeling as he laid her halfway on the earth. A large hand pressed against her forehead, then moved to the center of her chest between her breasts. She strained against him, her head swimming as she tried to roll out of the crook of his arm. She felt the muscles of his chest and arm stiffen as she moved, his clawed fingers pinching her skin as he held her in place.  
Something was terribly wrong. Sweat formed beads on her pallid flesh, and she felt hot and cold all at once. Her soft form shook, but not entirely of fear. She realised that she had taken a fever, and despite all of her efforts to clean her wounds it was clear that her efforts were too late and the beginnings of an infection had taken hold.  
The strange being which held her seemed to be taking her temperature; an oddly human notion considering the fact he was anything but human. A frightening notion entered Gwenyfar’s mind just then, and her hand grasped his bicep weakly, eyes rimmed in white.  
“Do not leave me here to die.” The words rolled off her thick tongue in a slurred fashion, her voice high with fear. She held his gaze with desperation, knowing that he probably did not know a single word she spoke. “Please…”  
Tears stung her eyes, and she squeezed them shut. She did not want to die alone. If he left her there, and did not get proper treatment, her death was a certainty. No one would mourn her loss.  
Gwenyfar felt him shift, his hand moving up to the soft spot at the base of her neck where her shoulder began. She felt his fingers pulling against her hair as he moved to firmly press his thumb against her burning flesh. She did not have time to protest; she felt herself fall back into darkness.


	3. III - In the Wake of Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gwenyfar struggles with memories while recovering under the care of two Tamassrans. Arvaarad contemplates the future of the strange bas as well as his own past failings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello. This is the third chapter... The fourth is still in process and it is very likely that my updates will be weekly on this work. Thanks for stopping by!

**III.**

______________________

In the wake of dawn  
The mist of morning lingers before it leaves  
Invisible eyes, red reflection  
It is you  
Smiling in the midst of the moor

_ \- Opeth _

______________________

 

F or a long time, there was only darkness, and the sensation of falling through eternity. Slowly, memories flicked past like the dying light of many candle flames; some brighter than others. Gwenyfar turned and reached out for the light, but another found her first, blinding her as it swallowed her whole.   
In the blink of an eye she was in her room, laying on her bed, waking from her sleep. Relief washed over her, but was quickly snuffed. A figure leaned against the threshold of her bedroom, and she recognized it immediately. Her heart slammed against her chest as  _ he _ approached, his hand finding her neck, squeezing until her eyes bulged.

“ _ You are worth less than nothing _ .” He breathed. A smile split his face as he watched her struggle; her legs kicking and the heels of her palms slamming against his chest.

She cried out for help with her last bit of air. They were not alone in the house; her other roommates heard but they did not come. Why did they not come? Hot tears ran down her cheeks as she fought, every movement becoming weaker, her vision fading to black.

She was thrown back into the void, panic rising in her, splitting the darkness. She woke, her lungs straining as she gasped for lungfuls of air between sobs. Her eyes were blinded by tears, and she begged for help even as she felt the sensation of  _ his _ hand around her neck fading into memory.

_ She was alone.  _ The pain of it still lingered, like a hole longing to be filled.

Gwenyfar reached out, grasping at empty air, tendrils of her fever dream still holding fast to her mind. Hands held her wrists, and she pulled back before realising they were not  _ his _ . Someone was speaking to her, but she could not string together the words in her mind. A cool, damp cloth was pressed against her forehead, and then wiped her eyes of tears, clearing her vision.

Two women knelt beside her. A lamp was lit and sat atop a small table just behind the women, casting their faces into shadow. Gwenyfar swallowed hard, her breathing still rapid in the aftershocks of her fever dream, her eyes taking in as much detail as she could manage. Their hair was done up in a style reminiscent of a french braid, likely to keep it out of their eyes. One had tresses the color of caramel; the other a shade of pale fawn. Golden beads decorated the braids, and their ears were pierced with studs of gold as well. Their clothing was simple and practical: a long crimson dress, with close fitting sleeves that went just past the elbow, the skirt slitted up the sides to allow freedom of movement, finished with loose pants and leg wraps up to the knee.

The woman with fawn-colored hair shifted to rinse her cloth in a large bowl of cool water, allowing the light to illuminate her features. Her expression was soft and pleasant, allowing Gwenyfar to ease herself into the assurance that she was safe… At least for now.

“Water…. Please?” She flinched at the gravelly sound of her voice, but was grateful that they understood her plea. The woman with the caramel hair pressed a cup of warm liquid to her lips. Gwenyfar drank deeply of the tisane, noting the flavor of it as something that tasted like green tea brewed with fragrant herbs she could not name. The woman’s lips curved into a smile as Gwenyfar finished the whole cup. The warmth of the brew settled in her stomach pleasantly, and she laid back into the pillows behind her head.

“Where am I?” She murmured, her voice much clearer now. She could see that she was on a cot laid out on the earth. Woven rushes covered the ground, and various trunks were stored about the room. She was in a large tent, woven from heavy fabric and held up by thick, strong beams of wood. The door flap fluttered, letting in a sliver of firelight from outside.

“ _ Arvaarad _ found you,” The fawn-haired woman answered, her voice elegant yet strangely accented. “He brought you to the encampment for healing.”

Gwenyfar furrowed her brow, trying to remember, but all she could think of was a pair of dark eyes, the color of garnet. She shook her head in confusion.

“I don’t understand…” She uttered, her voice barely above a whisper. “How long have I been here?”

The healers exchanged glances, the caramel-haired one answering this time. “It has been four days. It was not certain you would live.”

“Oh,” The combination of the tisane and her fever muddled her thoughts and impeded her tongue. Her gaze fell to her bad arm as she tried to find more words. Her arm was expertly bandaged from her elbow up past her shoulder, spanning across the left side of her chest to help keep it secure. She impulsively flexed each of her fingers on her left hand, making sure it still worked.

Though she was covered in a thick blanket, Gwenyfar could feel that they had not clothed her. She remembered washing in the river; letting herself float in the calm shallows… And from there her memory became hazy. The flush on her cheeks deepened with embarrassment, knowing that mostly likely the whole encampment had seen her without a stitch of clothing. She was certain she did not dress before this  _ Arvaarad _ brought her here.

The rushes cracked as the caramel-haired stood, wooden wash-basin in hand, and left the tent. The remaining healer stood as well, moving about the tent to gather a few items. Gwenyfar watched wordlessly, feeling the heaviness of sleep beginning to drag her under.

“The markings…” Gwenyfar started at the sound of the woman’s voice, her gaze wandering to find where it came from. The fawn haired woman stood by the tent flap, her pale eyes fixed on the woman abed. “On your chest and arm… What are they?”

“Ah, my tattoos…” She struggled to find an explanation that wouldn’t frighten the woman. “The mark on my chest is an  _ Aegishjalmur _ . It is a magical stave rune against the abuse of power. It’s for…. Protection. And my arm… It is simply celtic knots.”

The healer’s expression did not reveal her thoughts, but she gave Gwenyfar a nod before disappearing through the tent flap. She was alone again.

She lay silently for a long time, listening to the sound of rain hitting the oiled fabric of the tent in a soothing rhythm. Her body felt as if she were sinking into a cloud; heavy, warm, comfortable. Her eyelids drifted closed, lashes brushing against her cheeks. Her cot vibrated gently with the approach of several feet, and rumbling wordless voices humming in her ears. She did not care to stay awake to greet the figures which entered the tent; sleep had already claimed her.

  
  


T he trilling of songbirds graced the still, humid morning. The sun struggled to break through the retreating thunderheads of a storm, casting the encampment in a shroud of soft grey light. Mist swam around the ankles of those who had risen early to light the cook fires for a morning meal.

Many tents, between thirty or forty if one counted, were pegged down on higher ground, raised up in such a way that the water would drip off the heavy oiled fabric into a trench dug specifically to run off excess water. The trench was wide as a man was tall, and cut through the middle of the camp, leading out to join the rushing water of a nearby stream of glacier runoff. It seemed that the trench was also cleverly used to dispose of waste, which would be carried off into the stream nearby.

The perimeter of the encampment was fortified by a stand of palisade, reinforced at the base by river stones encased in mortar. It was clear that this place had been built up several months ago; the wood of the palisade was new, but not fresh, and had been sealed with heavy oil which stained the wood to a deep russet hue. The slits in the palisade to allow the trench to flow freely were shielded by grates woven from interlocking oiled branches, preventing wild animals from entering. Wide, sturdy wooden planks had been mortared down over sections of the trench to allow passage from one side of the camp to the other.

A murmur rose like the hum of a beehive as the inhabitants woke to greet the day. The smell of spiced meat and freshly baked bread filled the air as cooks pulled giant loaves from crude clay ovens and fried strips of meat and eggs in cast-iron pans on grates over cook fires.

Gwenyfar sat up in her cot, taking in the sounds and smells of early morning. Her fever had finally broken the day before, and she was eager to be free of the confines of the tent. The healers had denied her clothing and made her stay abed, warning that the storm that had been raging outside would worsen her condition. She had been perturbed by their insistence, but she had no choice to accede.

Her head jerked toward the sound of the tent flap as the healers shouldered it aside. One carried a bundle of folded cloth, the other a woven basket with various sealed terracotta jars. Behind them, two other women carried in a wooden tub just big enough for Gwenyfar to sit in, but not big enough for her to stretch out her legs completely.

Her eyes dashed between the two new faces, and the familiar visages of the healers, her eyebrow raising with a question. The women returned her expression with one of reassurance and routine. “You must bathe if you are to recover properly from your sickness. They are here to fill the basin with water.” She recognised the voice of the pale faired physician. She had asked for their names just the other day, but they had simply shook their heads and told her ‘healer’. Gwenyfar had responded by naming them herself, to avoid confusion for her own sake.

It was Fawn who spoke to her now; and the other who she had nicknamed Cara, short for caramel, had left the tent with the unfamiliar women. The healer knelt at her side, folding down the blanket so that she was exposed down to her hips. The woman’s eyes lingered over Gwenyfar’s stave tattoo, half-hidden by the bandage, and the piercings through each of her nipples. Her full lips were pulled taut, her azure gaze unreadable and missing no single detail.

The injured woman shifted awkwardly as Fawn began working on unraveling the bindings of her arm dressing. The fabric started out white at first, but as she pulled the layers off, it became increasingly more stained with dried blood. The last strip of cloth came free, revealing a series of puckered, scabbed-over wounds. Fawn gently grasped Gwenyfar’s arm, twisting it this way and that, inspecting the injury for any lingering signs of infection.

“You are a lucky woman, that you still have the use of your arm, and that the  _ Arvaarad _ had found you when he did.” She stated matter-of-factly, her tongue clucking as she tested the flesh with her fingers, making Gwenyfar flinch. “I have wondered what manner of creature inflicted this damage, but you do not wish to tell me.”

The injured woman steeled her gaze and remained silent. Simply telling her would not suffice. She knew that more questions would come, and for some reason felt compelled to hide the truth of it, at least for now. The was a distinct impression that her story would make her presence here either welcome or unwelcome, and she was not prepared, physically or mentally, to find her way alone.

The thick leather of the door flap creaked dully as Cara and the two unfamiliar women reentered the tent. They each carried two large buckets, full of steaming water. They emptied the water into the tub, softly grunting with effort, before exiting the tent to retrieve another round.

“Come now, I will help you stand.” Fawn bent down, hooking her arms underneath Gwenyfar’s and lifting as she struggled to rise. At once she was on her feet, and despite the weakness of her legs, the injured woman smiled brightly. She walked toward the bath, her steps careful, the healer’s arm around her waist to brace her incase she slipped.   
The was a small stool in the tub for her to sit on, which would make it easier for her to get out later. Fawn guided her gently into the tub, and stepped away to a nearby table. Gwenyfar watched as the other took a knife and began chopping up a small bundle of fresh herbs, depositing fragrant mixture into a small wooden bowl.

“These will enliven your senses and cleanse your body.” The pale-haired woman remarked, seeming to sense her question. She returned to the edge of the tub, showing her the contents of the bowl, pointing to each one as she rattled off the names. “Royal Elfroot, Lady’s Mantle, Goldenseal, Rose petals, Lavender…”

The tent flap fluttered again, water buckets sloshing as the women approached and emptied them into the tub. Fawn sprinkled the herbs into the water, which now came up to mid-chest. A smell much like the pleasant aroma of brewed tea filled the tent. Cara dismissed the new faces silently, and joined Fawn as she began to bathe Gwenyfar.

“Uhm, I can do this myself, surely.” She protested as the two healers began scrubbing her skin pink with natural sponges. The women gave her odd looks and carried on in their task, making her stand so as not to miss a single spot. The injured woman’s cheeks flamed in humiliation, but the let them do as needed so it would be over as soon as possible. They at last came to her wild, black hair; combing it out before pouring water over her head and lathering it with spiced soap, taking several washes for it to finally come clean.

Guiding her out of the tub, they parted and combed her hair through with some sort of lightly fragrant oil to tame it’s wild curls. She found it rather odd that they used such things on her; she had the impression that these toiletries were considered luxuries and were not easy to come by. To spare such niceties on an unknown woman like her was strange indeed.

 

W hen all was said and done, Gwenyfar found herself fitted into a set of plain clothes, identical to the ones worn by the healers in almost every way but color. Whereas theirs was a muted red, hers was dyed a worn shade of willow green, and was belted at the waist with a russet leather girdle-belt. Her newly bandaged arm was hidden by the close-fitted, elbow-length sleeves of her tunic dress.

“You should remind your legs of their use and greet the day,  _ bas _ .” Cara suggested, the smile on her lips not reaching her eyes. “The cooks will have a meal ready, should you want to break your fast.”

Gwenyfar nodded, uttering her thanks as she carefully made her way to the tent flap. She hesitated only a moment before pushing it aside, her eyes squinting as dawn’s light needled her eyes. Her tent was on a built-up platform, with a small set of stone stairs leading down to the main path. The other tents were assembled identically to her own, and she wondered how she would be able to find her way back later in the day.

Despite her conundrum, she moved on, following the path downhill where she could see the shapes of many people gathered. The path intersected with others, creating roads which lead to other sections of the encampment. Force of habit caused her to lift her gaze and look both ways, but she paused a moment, her eyes locking onto what looked like a group of armed men coming down the intersecting path.

Her breath caught in her throat as they approached. Five towering men, their skin various shades of gleaming iron, pale hair pulled back into a single thick braid down to the small of their backs. Horns curved from their strong brows around the shape of their skulls, banded with bronze cuffs connected with each other by decorative chains. They wore no armour, but their weapons hung like a silent warning from their belts. If they noticed her watching, they didn’t show any of it. They simply turned in front of her, walking down the path she intended to follow, their braids shifting as they moved.

Gwenyfar swallowed, falling in step several feet behind them, her mind filling with questions. As they approached the main gathering point of the encampment, it became plain to see that these  _ men  _ were not unique. Soldiers filled the yard, many heads taller than her and crowned in various sized horns. Humans moved between the horned giants, but were far fewer in number. Many of her fellow people seemed to look a lot like refugees, huddled by the fires, thanking the cooks who handed them generous plates of food. Others assumed roles such as cooking, cleaning, tending the animals, and other such mundane things. Strangely, she did not see the horned ones amongst the people doing the grunt work. That puzzled her.

 

S pices burst pleasingly on her tongue as she chewed the last strip of meat the cook had given her. She sat on a bench by the fire, one of the few remaining after the main bulk of the soldiers had cleared out to do a drill outside the camp. The temperature rose steadily, despite their proximity to the mountains, and she could feel that the day was going to be punishingly warm.

Gwenyfar swallowed and turned her head, seeing figures approach in her periphery. A pair of soldiers, their skin glistening from morning drill, stopped just by her side. She rushed to stand, immediately understanding that they had come for her. The cook took her plate from her, and she turned to crane her neck up at the men, disappointment washing over her. They were most likely here to take her back to the tent.

“You are the  _ bas _ with the injured arm.” It was a statement, not a question. She nodded, and the guard who spoke to her made a sound halfway between a grunt and a growl. “The  _ Arvaarad _ will see you, now.”

The woman swallowed hard, her brow furrowing as she tried to remember what happened the day this  _ Arvaarad _ had found her. The guard who spoke turned on his heel. The other guard firmly grasped her elbow, and her gaze darted up to meet his as she suppressed the scream rising in her throat. Eyes of amethyst flecked with gold met hers through the slits in his helmet, lingering for several moments before turning away. The giant followed his comrade, pulling her along with him as she trotted to try and keep up with his long strides.

They were fast approaching the only wooden building in the whole encampment. It was easily two stories tall, and had been there for a long time. The oaken logs used to construct the building were well oiled, and the clay tile roof looked to be newly replaced. The horned guard led her to a heavy door, easily wide and tall enough to allow the three of them to pass without bumping into each other, and bound with bands of iron and outfitted with advanced locking mechanisms. There were two other soldiers stationed either side of the door, and they nodded to each other as Gwenyfar was led over the threshold.

The hall was lit by lamps, but dark compared to the brightly daylight outside. Gwenyfar blinked, allowing her eyes to adjust to her new surroundings. The floor was paved with slabs of flat, smooth stone. On either side of her, for at least thirty feet, were stalls where enormous horses were tended, ruminating over flakes of hay. A soldier looked at them as they passed, grooming a massive grey palfrey. At the end of the hall, there were rooms she assumed were used to store away various supplies; ten in all, they were barricaded by massive ironbound doors, boasting extensive locking mechanisms. Pegs on the wall allowed a number of lead lines to be hung up, ready for use.

She was pulled around a corner toward another door which sported only a handle to pull it open. Their purpose was clear; wherever they meant to take her was behind this door, and the firm grip the amaranthine-eyed soldier had on her made her uneasy. Gwenyfar closed her eyes, inhaling deeply as they pulled her through the door.

She felt the horned-one’s fingers flex and drum against her skin as if to wordlessly alert her. She allowed her eyes to open and drink in the soft lamplight which illuminated the room. It was modestly appointed; a large map pinned to a table in the middle of the room, nearby a row of desks piled with billfolds of crisp parchment and various writing utensils, and a few doors for what she assumed was storage. The soldiers led her to a bench nearby the entrance, and bade her sit before turning to exit. The violet-eyed one seemed to linger a moment longer than proper protocol demanded, and she tilted her head as her eyes followed him out of the door, leaving her all to herself. 

She had naught to accompany her but the steadiness of her beating heart and the sound of guttering lamps. There was a strange feeling in the air as well; as if it were charged by static energy… As if the veil was thin and the power of the Gods was pressed taut against it. The sensation made the hair on her arms and the back of her neck stand on end. She was so engrossed in it, she did not notice that she was no longer alone.

 

\----

 

_ A _ _ sala-taar _ . The reader inhaled deeply, chair groaning as they adjusted their position. Garnet eyes examined the flowing script which filled half the page; a report received early in the morning by one of the  _ viddathari _ :

 

_ 9:43 Dragon - 9th day of June - Seventh day since arrival _

 

_ As previously observed, the bas suffers from fits during her sleep. Tincture of valerian root (twenty drops in evening tea) has been administered with poor effect. Recommend tincture of valerian to be increased to forty drops. _

_ Condition of left arm continues to improve; recommend current treatment to continue until appendage has healed. Bas does not seem to recall incident which led to her wounds. _

_ Observations continue as directed. Bas seems to suffer many symptoms similar to patients returned from Seheron diagnosed with Asala-Taar. Probable cause of night terrors affecting her sleep. Does not wake when attempt to rouse her is made. She speaks on occasion during her sleep; cannot make sense of her words. _

_ As previously noted, the bas has permanent markings on her injured arm and in proximity to her left collarbone area. She admitted that they had purpose with magic, though no evidence of such has been presented, with examination yielding no results. Patient has also been pierced in two locations; beyond aesthetic the purpose unknown. _

_-_ __ Tamassran-eva _ _

 

 

The sound of the nib of a quill scratching against vellum filled the room as orders were written, then finished with setting powder to dry the ink. The diminutive form of  _ viddathari _ retrieved the now-folded letter from it’s author and left the room. The garnet-eyed Qunari settled back into his chair once more, a low grunt rumbling in his chest as considered the situation at hand.

They had been on patrol when the  _ Saarebas _ had alerted him with a growl, directing  _ Arvaarad _ toward a place where he could feel the veil grow thin. The air seemed to crackle with energy as they followed the lead to a clearing within an island of trees. They had found a trail of blood leading from a circle of stone; strips of burgundy fabric in a patch of tall grass crushed by something which had crawled to rest there. The trail had lead them out of the clearing into the deep forest, and the  _ Arvaarad _ had sent two  _ Ashaad _ forward to scout the trail.

It was his duty to track down what ever had come through the veil and dispose of it as was expected. The fact that the trail had led to a human  _ bas _ was  _ not _ expected. She was clearly injured, and delirious from fever. He recalled the softness of her shape, and noted at the time that she was likely not of the warrior caste. Yet then Qun would find use for her; it wasted not.

Her clothing had been gathered and sent to the  _ Isskari _ in Par Vollen for study, as they were made from unfamiliar materials and dyed in colours he had never seen replicated before, and furthermore touched by the fade. He was admittedly interested to see the results of the report that would return to him in a few weeks time. He was sure the consequences of the report would aid his purpose.

The task had been assigned to the  _ Kithshok _ , but it was clear with more consideration that the Arvaarad was more suited to dealing with the distraction of the human  _ bas _ . All evidence pointed to the fact that she had entered the fade in corporal form and had been expelled in the clearing with the circle of stones. That demons may have come through the fade with her was a dangerous possibility, more so if she was  _ bas saarebas _ . Though she showed none of the usual signs, at least while under observation, it was Arvaarad’s duty to ensure the cantonment would not be corrupted by an unleashed  _ bas-saarebas _ .

Now that she was sufficiently healthy, he planned to move her closer for safety and observation. A room had been prepared in the upper level where the other  _ saarebas  _ were kept organised by their  _ karatam _ . Special rooms had been modified to safely hold at least six  _ karataams _ with four  _ saarebas _ each. Besides himself, there were only three other Arvaarad holding the leashes of fifteen  _ Saarebas _ between them. He himself only had three in his care, since his fourth, a female, had been taken by the  _ Tal Vashoth _ in battle, causing Arvaarad great shame.

Arvaarad stood abruptly, stretching his frame to full height at roughly eight feet, his suddenly foul mood seeming to swallow up the rest of the space in the room. Though it was truly  _ saarebas’s _ shame for refusing an honorable death and abandoning the Qun, it was Arvaarad’s by extension, and the Qun demanded he hunt her.  _ Saarebas _ would be a dangerous asset to the  _ Tal Vashoth _ .

Arvaarad rumbled softly, his fingers brushing against his  _ asala _ and the decorated control rod belted at his hip, leaving the quarters he shared with the other Arvaarad. His path lead him to the rooms assigned to his  _ karataam _ , separated from the others by a marked door. Inside, a corridor stretched out before him; two doors on each side boasting locks which would only open with a single unique key that was always in Arvaarad’s possession. Each room, except one, was occupied by a saarebas under his care.

The great qunari walked first to the door on his left, the locking mechanism clicking as it accepted his key and allowed him to open the door. The room was modestly appointed; a brass lamp hung from the ceiling, a raised cot occupied one corner, and a table with a chair stood on the opposite side. The room’s occupant looked up from the text of a worn book, eyes like carved ice, snow white hair loose about his bronze shoulders. His pale horns, once great in size, had been shorn in submission to the Qun and were now capped in pale gold. The chains which secured his heavy collar around his neck clattered as he stood to greet his keeper.

The Arvaarad stepped away from the door, control rod in hand, allowing the saarebas out of his cell. He repeated the same action for the next two doors; binding, masking, and finally leashing his  _ karataam _ before leading them out into the encampment.


	4. IV. Asit Tal-Eb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tam-Eva admires her mentor. Tamassran remembers her name. Gwenyfar is questioned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy it. : )

IV.

______________________

Canst thou tell me whence thou comest  
And where thou goest  
And what is, or what was, or what is to come?  
For everything remains as it never was

_\- Eluveitie_

______________________

 

The curved blade of her sickle sliced through the fibrous stems of a stand of elf root.  A heady fragrance filled the air as she bound the stems with a piece of twine and added the bundle to the growing pile in her basket. Her gaze lifted to the fair-haired woman who crouched beside her, fingers working meticulously to pull up the roots of a blue cohosh plant before severing them from the stems and adding them to her basket.

The Tamassran. She was beautiful; her thick, braided hair was the color of spiced cream, decorated with shining golden beads etched with the symbol of the House of Tides. Her pale eyes were fixed on her task, and despite her concentration she always managed to look serene. And herself… She was just Tamassran-eva, apprenticed to Tamassran, and was not as elegant or proficient as her teacher, though she never made her feel that way on purpose.

Tam-eva had been found in a forgettable Ferelden village by an Ashaad, saved from the townspeople who thought her a witch for cultivating herbs and healing the sick. They had meant to kill her, but Ashaad had protected her.  
“Under the Qun, a healer of the sick is protected and revered.” He had told her after the villagers had dispersed. Tam-eva had begged him not to leave her there, and she had sworn her life to the Qun that very day. She had been taken to Denerim, and then across the Amaranthine Ocean; travelling for weeks with the Ashaad and his company until they made landfall on Par Vollen.

She studied the Qun there for two years, and was finally assigned a role under the Ariqun as Tamassran-eva with pale, beautiful Tamrassan as her tutor. When Tamassran was designated to accompany the Rasaan, advisor to the Arishok, Tam-eva was expected to follow and learn. It was her ninth year away from Par Vollen, and they had travelled to a great many places, but it was here they had lingered the longest.

Soft laughter pulled Tam-eva back from her thoughts, her eyes turning toward the pleasant sound. A group of five women, who looked only to be a few years younger than Tam-eva’s twenty six years, sat in a loose circle only a few yards away. They appeared to be admiring a small gathering of two Arvaarad, their _Saarebas_ , and a few _Karasaad_ nearby. The men had just completed the morning drill, and now casually stood guard over the Tamassrans as they harvested various herbs outside of the protection of the palisade. Their skin gleamed with freshly painted vitaar, hair braided back in various styles to keep it from obstructing their line of sight if the time came to defend the encampment. Their horns were oiled and shone dully with polish whose recipe Tam-eva knew very well.

A familiar form came into view, approaching the group with a woven basket hooked on her arm. Pale braided hair reached below the small of her back and swayed with her hips as she moved. The eyes of the soldiers immediately found her, and a few of them acknowledged her presence with a slight nod. An Arvaarad addressed her, and ordered one of his saarebas forward to kneel obediently before her.

Tamassran approached the hulking form of the bronzed saarebas whose horns had been shorn and capped in fine gold. Even kneeling as he was, the saarebas was nearly eye level with the woman, but bowed his head in submission to her. The graceful woman’s hand smoothed the pale hair between his horns consolingly, and she spoke to his keeper as she uncapped them. A small clay pot was produced from a hidden pocket, and Tamassran massaged it’s contents into the grooves of the Saarebas’s horns.

Tam-Eva had remembered preparing the salve this morning after they had dealt with bathing the bas. It was a special combination of comfrey, rosemary, cloves, and kelp mixed with melted beeswax until ideally brewed. Such a thing was necessary for the horned Qunari, more so for those whose horns were cut or damaged. If left unchecked, infections could easily take root and cause great harm.

The apprentice stood, brushing the dirt off the front of her tunic-dress before making her way toward her tutor, arm hooked around the handle of her basket. As she approached, she could hear the deep thrumming of the soldiers voices as they spoke quietly among themselves, but above all the Arvaarad’s rolling tongue seemed to take up the most space. Tam-eva’s jaw set almost immediately out of habit as she took her place by Tamassran’s side; the scarlet-eyed Qunari had always seemed to garner her shyness to a certain degree.

“... You must apply this daily, Arvaarad, if this is to properly heal.” Her qunlat was exemplary, but the Tamassran was born in Par Vollen and this was expected. She pressed the small clay pot into the qunari’s massive hand and nodded a curt farewell before turning on her heel to follow the foot path back to the compound.

Tam-Eva followed obediently, struggling to keep up with the taller woman’s long strides. It was then she noticed the troubled expression which cracked through the Tamassran’s mask, and the younger woman clasped her arm in an attempt to comfort her.

  
\---

 

The flames of many candles pressed against the darkness of the tent, but deep shadows still remained. A brass censer was lit and swung by it's keeper, filling the room with thick layers of frankincense.

 _You are my soul._ She closed her eyes against the memory, but did not dare to let her emotions bleed through. This ritual was sacred, and it was vital she did not taint it with her despair. _My Asala._

She had adorned herself according to tradition: wearing nothing but a headdress of gold chain and many tiny dangling bells, a delicate choker of metal filigree with hundreds of fine chains spanning from the collar to a belt high on her waist, as well as bracelets and anklets to match. Every movement was to be precise, to create a melody as she carried out the ceremony. She circled around a dais piled high with furs, on top of which a form of pale copper reclined. His horns were smooth and pale like polished alabaster: three sets of two, each smaller than the previous set, the points tipped with caps of metal the same color as his oiled skin. Her hips rolled, eliciting a cascade of chiming, and his golden eyes followed the movement.

The censer was hung from a hook above the dais, and the one named Asala moved onto the mound of furs, on her knees before the reclined Karasten. The moment seemed to hang suspended between them; her pale eyes locked with his. His features were angular, nearly draconic; high, pronounced cheekbones, a heavy brow from the massive set of horns, full lips parted to reveal slightly pointed teeth. His hair was the color of fresh cream, and fell in damp waves over the expanse of his robust chest.

She placed a hand on his thigh, and the limb stiffened beneath her fingertips as she moved up to straddle his narrow hips. His arousal throbbed against her toned belly, begging attention, but her hands moved up to cup his face. Her fingers caressed the sensitive spots behind his ears before moving to bury into his thick hair, evoking a purr from the qunari beneath her.

The Karasten was so much like _him_. Indeed, she had chosen purposefully; the Karasten was here for her comfort as much as for his, and she was in dire need after she had nearly lost her focus. The qunari’s hands moved over the swell of her breasts, thumbs rubbing against her nipples, pulling Asala from her thoughts. Her eyes drifted closed, and she leaned into his touch, his hair brushing against her shoulder as his mouth found the sensitive spot on her neck.

She could not have _him_ ; it was taboo. The saarebas were assigned Tamassrans who were specially trained to resist their magic, this was known. Asala had been forbidden from it as she did not have the proper training, so she suffered to fill the emptiness he had left her with when he was bound and captured. _He had been so careful._

A hand slid over her belly and pressed against her mound, a finger pressing against her entrance and a thumb rolling against her clitoris. The fawn-haired Tamassran moaned into the Karasten’s massive shoulder, bearing down on him until the length of his finger slid deep inside her. A feral growl passed his lips, and she felt the sharpness of his teeth against her neck as he pulled his hand away to cup her backside and lift her up. One swift movement, and he was inside her; just the tip at first, his hips moving slowly as he pushed deeper with each stroke.

 _My Asala_ . It was as if he was there instead of the Karasten, and she moved against him feverishly, feeling whole once more. She was not within the confines of the camp, but deep in the wilds of the Frostback Basin; his body pressed against hers, his voice in her ears, the electricity which pulsed against her skin when he touched her causing her to shiver with pleasure. Her lips formed the shape of his name again and again: _Asaar_.

    Far away from the Tamassran’s tent, the one named Asaar jerked against his leash, gooseflesh rising as he heard a familiar voice whisper his name in the back of his mind.

  
\---

 

“ _A_ _sit tal-eb_ ,” Her voice was that of one who commanded the attention of all within earshot. “You are here now. What has happened before, it is not important. _Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit, aban aqun._ ” The tiny golden bells on her bracelet sung as she made a gesture as if to dismiss their previous discussion.

The listener's eyes followed the movement, wondering what kind of cosmic joke or fever dream her mind was making her suffer through. The bracelet reminded her of the headdress she wore when she was at her campsite fanning the coals to send her plea by smoke to the Gods. The gentle sound reminded her of what she left behind, and she subconsciously moved to press her palm against her heart, her inner voice reciting a prayer.

She had been asking her how she came to be here, what her tattoos meant, what her affiliations were. Gwenyfar had answered sparingly: “I was attacked by wolves, and I woke up in an unfamiliar place. My tattoos are for protection”--the woman across from her had snorted at the irony of this, eyes fixed on the bandages which peaked out from the collar of her tunic dress---”I don’t have any. I don’t even know where I am.”

“Come with me.” The woman stood from the bench she had been sitting on, her height eclipsing Gwenyfar. It took only a few strides for her to cross the room and take up position beside the table on which a map was pinned. The smaller woman approached, her wrapped feet sliding against the smooth stone of the floor, and the other swept her hand over the map.

“This,” Her finger tapped against the vellum, pointing to a landmark labelled in English as well as some other language. Gwenyfar leaned in to read the flowing script, her brows furrowing. _The Frostback Basin_. Nestled beside a river in a mountain valley was an ink mark stuck through with a pin, indicating the location of the camp. It wasn’t labelled, but the topography seemed correct for where they were located. “... Is where we are now.”

She felt the eyes of the other woman on her, watching her almost expectantly, and she looked up into her face. Her skin was unblemished as polished dark silver, her eyes were lined in kohl and glittered like flakes of gold in the lamplight, hair braided in a thick rope down her back. Small, elegant horns curved around her head in tines of ridged obsidian, accented by delicate bands of etched silver. She must have been nearly seven feet tall, and her height added to her aura of authority.

Gwenyfar shook her head, eyes sweeping the vast tracts of land filling the map. Ferelden. Orlais. The Free Marches. Tevinter Imperium. Par Vollen. She did not know any of these places. “You say you know nothing, that you are here by coincidence, but your timing is peculiar.” The woman pressed. “That you should walk out of the Fade so close to where the scar had been torn into the sky. There could be demons riding with you.”

There was a prickling sensation on the back of her neck, and Gwenyfar drew herself up to attention, sensing she was walking a fine line with the woman. “Truthfully, I do not know this place. This,” She made a circular motion with her hand over the map. “I do not come from any place on this map. None of this is familiar to me.”

“You come from uncharted lands?”

“Yes. I think so. I really…” Her voice was barely a whisper. “...I don’t know.”

The taller woman inhaled deeply, her mouth parting to pose another question, when the sound of a door opening interrupted the exchange.

“ _Rasaan. Shanedan_.”

“ _Shanedan, Arvaarad_.”

“ _You return without sending word. Has the Arishok and the Kithshok returned with you_?” The paving stones seemed to vibrate as the warrior crossed the room, his sword and ornate control rod thumping against his thigh.

Gwenyfar’s eyes widened, her vision filling with his towering form. His chest was painted with angular markings, shoulders crested with heavy leather pauldrons, face masked by a slotted helmet which hooked around his thick black horns. His pale hair was worn in a half-braid and accented, like his horns, with narrow clasps of gold bejewelled with tiny garnets. His ears were pierced with bands likewise accented with garnet, flashing like drops of blood in the light. It was he who had pulled her from the river and brought her back to the encampment.

“ _Peace. We must deal with the bas first._ ” The horned woman named Rasaan held up her hand to halt the Arvaarad’s words, and it was clear to Gwenyfar that she was the higher authority in this exchange, despite not knowing the words they spoke. “ _I have spoken to her at length. She confirms everything the Tamassrans have reported to me, though she refuses to tell me where she comes from…”_

The Rasaan’s eyes swept over the Arvaarad’s large frame, her pale brows drawing together. _“... She smells of fear and magic. She seems innocent enough… Certainly too_ soft _in the middle to be a spy or warrior from_ Orlais _or_ Tevinter _. But we cannot be careless. She must be dealt with.”_

Gwenyfar looked from one to the other, her neck straining. The Arvaarad’s deep scarlet eyes glinted behind the slits in his helmet, dropping to capture her mossy gaze and hold it. He spoke to his superior, but did not break eye contact with the smaller woman, his voice deep and smooth and _dangerous_.

“She is under my care, _Rasaan_.”

The woman he addressed leaned against the map table, her long nails clicking against the stained surface as she considered him thoughtfully. Gwenyfar bristled, her face reddening as she realized that she was the topic of their conversation. Her hands clenched at her sides, wringing a handful of the fabric of her dress. The words rolled over her tongue before she could stop them, her heart beating a rapid rhythm in her chest. “I do not wish to impose… I know I have been a burden. I… I can leave here, if you wish it.”

Gwenyfar’s words were met with stares and silence. Flustered, she noted that she had intruded, and bobbed her head in the best show of courtesy she could manage, particularly aware of the sharp gaze of the Arvaarad scanning her features. She shifted her weight and stepped back from the two, her muscles in her abdomen aching from holding her breath for so long.

A hand was on her arm before she was able to take another step, firmly keeping her where she stood. A shiver ran up her spine as her eyes followed the length of a painted arm to the concealed visage of the horned soldier. His head tilted, eyes lost behind the darkness of his helmet. She got the feeling she had to wait to be dismissed by the Rasaan.

“That will not be permitted, human _bas_. You are still injured.” Rasaan purred, her cat-like eyes dancing in the candlelight. “You can stay here. If you are worried about your usefulness, you can help the Tamassrans collect herbs.”

“ _She is not_ _viddathari.”_ The Arvaarad interjected, his voice unreadable. “ _She cannot know what would be expected of her.”_

The Rasaan turned her gaze on the Mage-keeper. “ _Her role cannot be decided as it would be in Par Vollen. She will be used as needed here, as the Qun demands it. Asit tal-eb.”_

The dismissal was clear in the tone of her voice, and the Arvaarad unceremoniously turned toward the door, his hand dropping from Gwenyfar’s arm. She moved to follow him, pausing for a moment to look back at the horned woman. Her golden eyes seemed to look through her, directly at her crux, and it took all of her strength to turn away from her again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Asit Tal-Eb = It is to be  
> Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit, aban aqun = The tide rises, the tide falls, but the sea is changeless  
> Shanedan = Common greeting... "I'll hear you"


End file.
